


Suffer The Children

by Rossi



Category: Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Prostitution, References To Pedophilia, References to Canon, References to Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rossi/pseuds/Rossi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Called in to investigate a series of mysterious - and bloody - deaths, Constantine discovers a connection to his own past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Mornings It Doesn't Pay To Get Out Of Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Constantine and any other recognisable character aren't mine, they're Vertigo's. No profit, only homage.

To say the room dripped blood was not an exaggeration.

John Constantine took another long drag of his cigarette, grateful for the way the smoke drowned out the stench of shit and blood. Even if it was his third this morning and it wasn’t even seven yet. Better the burning in his sinuses than vomiting last night’s takeaway all over the floor. Hell, if he’d been alone he might have done it anyway: early morning hangovers and gruesome murders didn’t mix. But up-chucking all over Detective Sergeant Kingston’s shoes wouldn’t go down particularly well. Or come up very well either.

“What makes you think this is somethin’ I’d be interested in, Phil?” he asked at last, his fingers only trembling slightly as he took the smoke out of his mouth.

“As soon as I saw this mess I knew it was right up your alley. Some kind of magical shite.” Kingston’s face - broad and craggy, like a small cliff face topped with grey scrubby hair - twisted as he looked around the small room. It had been - until as recently as last night, around 1am, according to the forensic boys - the home of one Nigel Burrowes. He owned - _had_ owned, rather - the somewhat dubious second hand bookshop downstairs. His sexual preferences had drawn him to Soho and the lure of the area’s rent boys. He’d been on the Met’s list of known pedophiles, Kingston had said in the careful tones of official neutrality, but considered generally harmless. Quiet. Shy. Bookish. The epitome of Nigelness, he’d kept himself to himself. Not usually the sort to attract such a spectacularly occult death.

“When I first heard Burrowes had snuffed it, I thought he might have topped himself. He’d had a couple of goes, just couldn’t get the hang of it.” Kingston stayed in the doorway while Constantine made a careful circuit of the red-coated room. His shoes stuck to the floor at every step; _‘Puts me in mind of really nasty pub carpet,’_ he thought wryly. “Must have been a hell of a clean-up job for the coroner’s lot,” he added aloud. 

“Then when uniform flagged it as a murder, I thought it might be one of those vigilante groups,” Kingston continued, ignoring the crack, but seeming to enjoy watching Constantine make his way gingerly around the room. “We’ve had a spot of bother after some wanker working for the local rag decided to make a name for himself, publishing a list of registered child molesters in the area.”

“You’re slipping - isn’t ‘pedophile’ the official term?” Constantine ignored the glare and went on. “’S possible, if one of your vigilantes had access to some pretty powerful explosive,” he remarked, examining the floor beside the bed. In the gore-spattered room, it was the only clean spot, a small circle about a foot in diameter. In the very centre were two scorched marks that looked not unlike footprints. Very small footprints. Constantine knew the answer to his speculation about the explosives, but he wanted to keep Kingston distracted.

“No shrapnel. And I’m willing to bet my pension the lab boys turn up nothing on residue either. No reports of an explosion, and his neighbour’s one of those nosy old biddies that have their own personal radar.” Kingston shrugged. “So unless the vigilantes have access to some kind of top-secret silent invisible explosive, I’d say we’re talking paranormal forces. Which is your department.” 

“I’m not on the payroll of Her Majesty’s Finest,” Constantine said, straightening and making his way to the door. “What makes you think I’ll offer me services?”

“Because Burrowes isn’t the first one.”

“How many?”

“Three others, so far. All perverts. All found dead in highly suspicious circumstances.” Kingston stepped aside to let Constantine pass, reaching into his jacket as he did so. “The first one, Patrick Clarke, was a sad case like Burrowes here. Found incinerated in a toilet block. Local bobbies would have passed it off as National Front, except for a few anomalies.”

“Such as?” The photos Constantine pulled out of the usual yellow envelope were clinically graphic, in the manner of all crime scene pictures. A dank toilet block, the walls scrawled with hate slogans and faeces, Clarke himself a sad soggy heap of charred ashes and blackened bones. Crappy place to die. Poor bastard’s glasses had melted over his face like a plastic poultice.

“No accelerant, for a start. No struggle, no evidence of anyone else being present. Except for this.” Kingston reached over to pull out the next photo - a patch of tiled floor unsullied by greasy soot, except for two small footprints.

“And the other two?” 

“Like our friend here. Splattered all over the landscape. I figure our villain has gotten the taste for it with Clarke, and then refined his technique. Certainly the second one, Long San Teo, was a bit of a botch job.” Constantine’s gaze moved over pulverised body parts strewn throughout a small alley littered with refuse and syringes. “Didn’t have the power, y’see, or judge it well enough. With Burrowes and Callaghan, the third victim, you could fit the largest bit in a cigarette packet. Teo, well, you can see what a mess was left. And to make matters worse, he wasn’t found until the next day.”

“Hmm?” Constantine fished through the pockets of his trench coat at the mention of cigarettes.

“Half the feral cats and dogs in the area had had a feed by the time we got there. Rats too. Bloody pervert had become a veritable smorgasbord.”

Constantine screwed up his nose at the image. “And the last one?” he asked, hoping to get this over and done with. Kingston was enjoying it too much.

“Callaghan? Nasty piece of work, that one. Cheers across the patch, when news got out he was off the scene. He was found in a similar state to poor old Burrowes, in his flat-cum-torture chamber. Like I said, a nasty piece of work.” The basement flat was a S&M showpiece, chains hanging from the walls, whips sorted by size… It didn’t escape Constantine’s notice that the chains hung to an unusually low height, and that the cuffs were extra-small. “He was into home movies of the particularly revolting type. Kiddie torture, rape, that sort of shit. Problem was, we could never pin anything on him. We didn’t even know about this place until some sad act druggie breaks in and finds him.” Kingston’s grey eyes were like flint in the landscape of his face. “Same thing, no shrapnel, no residue, two little black footprints.” The police officer watched as Constantine slid the pictures back into the envelope. “Now, some coppers might decide to turn a blind eye, mark the files as “Unsolved” and leave it at that.” 

But not Phil Kingston. The man was like a rock, slow and solid and dependable. Had the morals of his Yorkshire forebears, stood no nonsense, believed in the inviolability of justice. For a moment Constantine found himself wishing one of the more… flexible members of CIB had been called onto this case. In the next moment he knew why they had not. 

“Scum like Callaghan, I might be tempted.” Large corrugated hands took the envelope, slid it carefully back into the inside jacket pocket. “But the law doesn’t work that way. Justice for all, innocent until proven guilty. Someone, or some _thing_ , is playing God on my patch, and I don’t like it.”

“Strange way of putting it.” With another exhalation of smoke, Constantine decided. “Fine, I’ll have a nose about. See what the word out there is. But a word of caution, Phil. This thing, whatever it is -and I’m not sure _what_ it is yet - is bloody dangerous. It’ll chew up your lads like potato crisps. Try and curb their enthusiasm, eh?”

“I already knew that, but I’ll keep it in mind. Keep me informed. And try not to draw too much attention to yourself? Area wouldn’t be impressed if they found out I was consulting with the occult.” 

“Or me, eh?” With that, Constantine took his leave, glad to leave the stench of death and boiled cabbage that permeated the halls. He had people to talk to, the sooner the better.

So much for sleeping in.


	2. Out of the Mouths of Babes

“Lookin’ fer sumfing in partic’lar, mate?”

Roxy’s Café was well known as the place to find ‘off-duty’ prostitutes of both genders. Not much of a refuge, really - the walls carried a patina of grease several generations thick, and the customers often pitted their wits against the resident cockroaches. It was run by an ex-tom by the doubtful name of Candy; a misnomer if ever there was one, unless she was one of those peppermints grandfathers inflicted on children. Hard as nails and pungent enough to take your breath away.

This time of morning, the place wasn’t exactly jumping - the counter hand was slouched against the cash register, flicking through the “News of the World” and sparing the occasional glare to his customers. There were a couple of young women, obviously old to the game, their faces hard beneath the thick make-up and their legs blue with cold in their too-short, too-tight skirts. A wino, huddled into an old Army greatcoat, muttered and coughed to himself while he nursed the cup of tea he’d splurged his last 10p on. And over in a booth near the front window, three young men in tight jeans and even tighter t-shirts under their thin jackets, drinking Coke and sharing a bent cigarette while outside the sleet spattered against the windows and turned the footpaths treacherous.

Every bleary eye turned to Constantine as he made his way to the counter and muttered a curt request for a cup of tea. “Hold the grease”, he nearly added, seeing the dull shine of it on the crockery. He knew he was being assessed, could almost hear the collective wheels turning frantically. Tourist? Police? Pimp?

Punter. He caught the eye of the largest of the three lads, and received a brief nod in return. Carrying the chipped white mug of murky brown-ness, he made his way to the table. The large one - Craig, his name turned out to be - had jumped in early with his question. A bit of an entrepreneur, despite a London accent that made Constantine's sound cultured. Had tabs on himself, too.

“Not in the way you mean.” Constantine slid into the empty seat next to a spotty, slouching youth whose dark hair hung lank and unwashed around his face. “I was wonderin' about the book store bloke.”

“Old Rabbit?” asked the youngest of the group. He still had the slightly rounded face of childhood, but his blue eyes were ancient in their world-weariness. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen, Constantine guessed.

“Shut it, Noel,” Craig said curtly. “’E’s bloody filth.”

“Do I look like police to you?” Constantine sneered, shaking a cigarette out of the pack and fishing in his coat for his lighter. As he lit up, he felt the hungry eyes of nicotine addiction on him.

“Journo, then,” said Craig, his thick fingers twitching towards the pack left on the table. Heavy set, his hair shaved down to a dark fuzz, he looked more the sort to be beating up gay men than to be selling his body to them. Definitely a story there, one not to be found in the General Reading Section either, he’d warrant.

“Nope.” Deliberately he blew a cloud of grey blue smoke into Craig’s face, enjoying the way the boy sucked it in greedily. “Guess again. Get it right, you might win a prize.”

“You’re Conjob, aren’t you?” Unexpectedly, the question came from Spotty. He was sitting up, his lanky form unfolding like a deck chair, all impossible angles. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Constantine?” Craig’s hand jerked away from the cigarette packet like he’d been stung. When he looked up, his muddy brown eyes held new respect. “Shit, _everyone’s_ ‘eard of yer.”

"I won't ask what." Constantine grinned briefly. “So, what do you lot know about Burrowes?”

“He’s dead, ain’t ‘e?” Craig shrugged. “Not much else, is there?”

“Rabbit was a bit of a regular,” said Spotty. His accent was smooth, polished. Public school-boy living rough. “He liked them young, like Noel here. He was considered a safe customer, so he was popular with the chickens.” At Constantine’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated. “The young kids, the underage ones.”

Noel nodded. “He was all right. Nothing weird. Used to give us sweets ‘n’ stuff.”

“Noel was his favourite, weren’t you, Noel?” sneered Spotty. Noel’s pale skin flushed pinkly.

“Get stuffed, Simon.”

“Not mourning his loss, are you?” Spotty - Simon - shook his head in disgust. “Or is it because he found himself another little friend? Either way you’re going soft.”

“It’s not my fault that kid starting working our patch,” said Noel sulkily. “I told you Craig should have warned him off.”

“Not worth th’ bovver, shrimp like that,” Craig muttered, a brief shadow of unease flitting across his face.

“And I told you to leave him to Callaghan and his like,” Simon drawled, his eyes suddenly predatory. “Just up their alley, pretty thing like that.” 

“Callaghan?” Constantine asked. Wrong move - the faces of the three closed up as effectively as a steel security door slamming down.

“We keep away from him - he’s dangerous,” Noel said, casting a look at Simon.

“He’s also dead. Found in his flat a couple of days ago. I'm surprised you haven't heard.”

“Who says we haven't?” Simon leaned across, his breath wafting across Constantine’s stubbled cheek. “Callaghan had mates, clients, 'co-workers'. And no-one wants to run afoul of them.” He leaned back, folding thin arms across his chest. “Besides, you never know - what happened to him could happen to anyone. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.” A warning.

Constantine swallowed the last mouthful of tea, grimacing as he spat the sludge of tea leaves and unmelted sugar back into the mug. Normally he would try to turn the little snot upside down and shake the information out of him, but Kingston had asked for his discretion on this one. And while he didn’t dance to the Old Bill’s tune, his quarry would soon get wind of him if he made too much of a ruckus. Curiosity might have indeed killed the cat, but he also knew several ways to skin one.

“Ta, lads,” he said, straightening his coat as he stood. “Keep the ciggies, I’ll get meself some more.” He ignored the knowing sneers on the faces of the two toms and the bloke behind the counter; talking to boy prostitutes was better than demon-raising, although demons usually talked more. Especially when it wasn’t entirely certain he was dealing with one of Hell’s host. He’d scout around, see what the word on the street was, call in a couple of favours. Sleet hit him in the face as he left the café, and he turned up his collar with a curse. But first to the nearest newsagent's - he needed some more smokes.

***

A fruitless day was darkening into wintry night as Constantine considered his next move. The Curry Gardens on Regis Street was looking good. A vindaloo, maybe a pint with Chas, sound the cabbie out on Burrowes. His usual sources had been strangely uninformed: even the most talkative 'Big Issue' sellers had been uneasily silent at the mention of the name. The specifics of Burrowes’ death must have gotten out.

Then he caught sight of a burly teenaged boy, shoulders hunched against the biting wind, a ragged knitted hat pulled down over his ears, trying unsuccessfully to loiter with intent outside one of the strip joints.

“Evenin’, Craig.” To the lad’s credit, he was only marginally startled by the old ‘sudden appearance’ trick. Recovering his tough man attitude, Craig nodded.

“Yer wouldn’t have the price of a cuppa on yer, would yer, mate? It’s cold enough ter freeze th’ bollocks off a brass monkey.” He glanced around. “I could make it worth yer while.”

“I don’t play on that team, I told you once already, kid,” snorted Constantine. “And last time you weren't that helpful. I’ve had a long shitty day and all I got out of it was sore feet. The only thing on my mind right now is a curry and a pint.” It was hard to hide the grin as Craig’s muddy brown eyes lit up at the mention of food. Hook, line and sinker, now he just had to reel him in.

“You were askin’ ‘bout Rabbit and Callaghan. I might ‘ave sumfin’ for yer.” Craig shivered as the wind picked up. “Cost yer a meal.”

“Inflation’s pretty heavy, ain’t it? It was a cup of tea a minute ago.” Constantine appeared to consider it, then jerked his head. “Come on, then, but if you’re pulling me leg I’ll make Callaghan look like bloody Roald Dahl.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

***

The kid ate like he’d never seen food before. Rajit was going to have to change his ‘all you can eat for a fiver’ policy at the rate Craig was inhaling the menu. It wasn’t until his fifth helping that he actually started to talk.

“I couldn’t tell yer this mornin’, not with Smartarse Simon sittin’ there like Lord Muck,” he said in between mouthfuls. “He ‘ave laughed ‘imself sick.” He pushed more rice onto his fork with a fragment of naan bread. “Would’ve ruined me rep.”

“That won’t be the only thing ruined if you don’t start talking,” Constantine said, his patience starting to wear thin.

“Yer remember that kid they woz talkin’ about? The one wot woz pinchin’ customers from Noel?”

“What about him?”

“I’ve bin seein’ ‘im around a lot the last month 'r so.” Abruptly, Craig laid his fork down, as if his appetite had fled. “Didn’t do nuffin at first, since he wasn’t gettin’ in anyone’s way. I thought he’d probably end up in a dumpster somewhere, or gettin’ picked up by th' filth. Then Noel started whingin' 'bout how he was pinchin' punters. Which woz funny, since I hadn't seen him workin' th' street. Didn't seem like one of us at all."

"How do you mean?" Craig shrugged.

"I dunno. Just a feelin'. He just seemed… above it all."

"So if he wasn't cruising, what _was_ he doing?"

"Watchin'. Talkin' ter th' lads, th' punters. Funny thing was, no-one could remember exactly wot was said later."

"Interestin'." Constantine drained his pint, shook out a cigarette. Craig licked his lips, and the older man sighed and held out the packet. "Go on, then."

"Yer see, when Simon sez stuff 'bout leavin' someone fer Callaghan, there ain't exactly much leavin' 'bout it." Craig sucked the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, exhaling with an almost contented sound. "When Callaghan or one of 'is mates clears up one of our 'problems', it ain't no accident."

"Simon set them up?" Constantine's eyes narrowed. You couldn't be in the shady end of the magic business as long as he had without developing a certain thickness of skin and looseness of morals. But he saw in his mind's eye those teeny-tiny handcuffs and was filled with a thin, burning anger. Seeing his face harden, Craig got defensive.

"Hey, I wanted no part of it. I'm th' sort wot fights 'is own battles, if yer know wot I mean. Givin' kids ter Callaghan… that's just sick." He grimaced a little. "Yer see, Simon's problem is he's almost nineteen, and on the junk. 'E has ter feed his habit, but his arse is getting' too old fer the punters. So Noel's 'is meal ticket. Anyone wot gets in Noel's way gets in th' way of Simon's next fix. Callaghan would give him crack sometimes, in exchange fer a kid."

"What 'bout you?"

"Me? I don't touch th' stuff. Seen too many mates OD. 'Sides, I ain't goin' ter die here, selling meself. I got meself a plan ter get out."

A Plan. All the street people, those who hadn't completely lost hope, had A Plan. Fool's dreams, usually - earn enough money to rent a flat, find a proper job, maybe start a family. But who would lease a place to someone who had the stench of the streets still on him? Who would hire a lad like Craig, who he could guarantee had no schooling and few skills?

"This kid. Did Simon pass him on to Callaghan?"

"He tried ter." The youth's face, which had been alight with the lure of his Plan only seconds earlier, darkened. "I woz hangin' around th' kid, keepin' an eye on him. I dunno why; sumfing about him reminded me of my little brother, I suppose. They all do, 'cept that little shit Noel. 'S why I usually try 'n' steer 'em away from our patch before Simon catches wind of 'em. Anyway, I woz workin' the High Street when I sees the kid talkin' to Callaghan, just as easy as yer please. Next fing I know, Callaghan's taken him by th' hand and is leadin' him away, towards his flat. I figgered it woz th' last we'd see of him. Callaghan doesn't play nice with his toys; he usually breaks 'em."

"Sounds like Simon was pretty successful in passing this kid on. What happened?" Craig shrugged.

"Not a fuckin' clue. Th' kid's back on th' streets th' next day, not a scratch on him. And then we heard 'bout Callaghan bein' found dead." Craig leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially. "I 'eard they had ter carry him out inna bucket."

"Sounds about right." Constantine mused on what Craig had said while the lad finished what was left on his plate, practically licking it clean. "This kid. He still around?"

"I saw him 'bout two nights ago, talkin' ter Rabbit. That's why Noel's got his knickers in a twist. Rabbit was _his_ punter, and he'd already told Simon 'bout this kid poachin' on our ground. He's 'bout ten, skinny, clean. Fairish hair. I think he's dossin' in a squat down near th' river." As if sensing his usefulness was almost expired, Craig asked. "Yer goin' ter talk ter him, then?"

"Maybe." Constantine fixed Craig's muddy brown eyes with his own. "Me business is me own, get it?"

Craig nodded, feeling himself being lost in that piercing blue stare. These were the eyes of a man who saw things no-one should ever have to see. Not if he wanted to stay sane. "I won't say nuffin."

"Good, kid. 'Course, it's not me you have t' worry about." Constantine's grin held no humour. "There's stuff more dangerous 'n' me out there. Whatever's killin' your punters, fer a start." He stood, pulling his battered wallet out of his inside pocket. "If I was you, Craig, I'd make meself scarce for a while. There's some very nasty shit going on around here. And I don’t mean scum like Callaghan."


	3. Things That Go Bump In The Night

The squat Craig had mentioned was one of many in the crumbling warren of abandoned warehouses down by the river. Another relic of the Thatcher era: the once-thriving manufacturing and export businesses had been flogged to death by the heavy stick of economic rationalism. Glass crunched under Constantine's feet as he walked along the overgrown road by the docks. There was barely a window left intact, and the walls were an archaeology of graffiti. Union slogans were overlaid with National Front racist taunts, which were themselves covered by the tags of the spray-can gangs. A fragment of an other-worldly landscape caught his eye, irritating something deep in his memory that he couldn't quite scratch. He left it - whatever it was, it would come of its own accord. Better to focus on the task at hand.

And quite the task it was, searching for one bolt-hole amongst the many. A right 'Mission Impossible', if not for the fact the cold air was thick with the greasy tang of magic. Strong magic, from pretty close by. Any stronger and sparks would have been leaping off his fillings. All he had to do was follow his nose.

The doors were padlocked and bolted, but it didn't take long to work his way around them. There were wards on the place too - the signature wasn't one he recognised, but the spellmanship was pretty good. Something to watch, along with the exploding people into tiny bits. With a shrug he slipped inside, without disarming the spells. What better way to meet the spell caster than to trip the alarms?

It was dark inside, blacker than Satan's underwear drawer. The cigarette lighter only accentuated the shadows, but at least he could see enough of the floor not to break his neck. The warehouse had been gutted, the floor an obstacle course of broken glass, half-burned chunks of wood, rusting metal and more rubbish than the Greater London Council could shift with an infinite army of dustmen. Used syringes splintered beneath the soles of his shoes. Bloody typical - the villains never had their secret hide-outs anywhere nice. It was always sewers and deserted buildings and the seedier pubs. It was getting so the municipal workers couldn't do maintenance on the pipes without stumbling across some secret society meddling with the forbidden and hatching plans for world domination…

Something banged metallically in the rising wind, drawing his attention upward to where a kind of mezzanine level had been built, not much more than rough platforms. Of course, the only way up was a series of rickety steps. Constantine cursed the Fates' slavish devotion to cliché.

"Sod this for a lark," he muttered, turning to go. Let Phil and his lads do the place over; they got paid for that sort of thing. Then a movement caught his eye in the dim flicker of his lighter, a lazy, swooping spiral, gleaming white in the dim light. As it reached his head height, he caught it in his hand. After glancing around for the inevitable ambush, of course.

It was a feather. Nothing particularly special, it could have come from any of the city's innumerable pigeons. Only it was familiar… Switching his lighter to the same hand, Constantine rummaged through his pockets, pulling out another feather that would have been a twin to this one, had it not been for the dried blood caking its fibres. Phil's forensic team had missed it in the carnage of Burrowes' flat, plastered to the floor underneath the bedside drawers.

"Bugger." He hated these sorts of coincidences.

The stairs creaked in suitably ominous fashion, but held his weight. Up on the platform the broken skylights and holes in the roof let in the weak orange glow of the city lights, casting warped shadows on the wooden floor. Unfortunately it let the rain in too, and Constantine grumbled under his breath as icy drops ran down his neck. There was a smell up here too, sort of musty and acrid, triggering a nasty suspicion. The toe of his shoe touched something soft and yielding; when he bent to pick it up, it proved to be a pigeon, its head hanging limply from a broken neck, the feathers stripped off its wings. Maggots squirmed in its empty eye sockets, despite the cold. He dropped it quickly, wiping his hand reflexively on his coat. There were others, lying where they'd been discarded; pigeons and seagulls and sparrows. Even a rook. Every wing was naked, goose-pimpled flesh exposed.

The floor creaked behind him. Too late, his innate sense of paranoia screamed that he wasn't alone. Power, lots of it, screamed along his nerve endings, scraping them raw. 

"You shouldn't be here." The voice was a child's. Constantine caught a glimpse of hair so fair it was almost white, cold blue eyes, the hand not filled with dead starling reaching towards him… 

'He can't do it without touching me.' 

Instinct took over. Heedless of the fall, Constantine dove off the platform, trusting in his luck, the hand of Dame Fortuna holding his, the flame of Judgement licking at his heels. His last thought before crashing into darkness was that he'd seen the kid somewhere before.

***

Morning, and a crushing headache. Constantine groaned and stirred, sending new debris sliding on top of him. His hand came away from his forehead sticky with blood, and the usual mental inventory told him he'd narrowly missed breaking several bones. As it was, he was going to be a walking bruise for a while.

"Stupid bastard. Should leave the hero stuff to the bloody wankers running around in their underwear." Slowly he pulled himself out of the pile of boxes and crates, not questioning the quirk of Fate that left them undisturbed when all else had been pillaged. The game didn't work that way. Sceptics had no luck. It was all in the belief. When you rode the Synchronicity Highway, it wasn't a good idea to ask what kept the wheels on.

The warehouse had a cold, empty feel, no surprise really; the bird had flown the coop. He heaved a chunk of broken plywood off and began the arduous task of climbing out of the sizeable crater he'd left. Time to call a friend.

***

He finally found a working phone on the fourth try. The booth stank of urine and was papered with business cards advertising "Sexy Swedish Massage" and lap dancing clubs, but at least there was a dial tone. It was only after the ninth ring that Constantine remembered Chas had been working nights lately. The sleep-laden voice that finally answered did not sound well-pleased.

"Who the hell is this?"

"Chas? Sorry, mate, it's John."

"Fuck."

"And top o' the morning to you too, mate. Listen, I need a lift."

"What a bleedin' surprise. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"No idea. Me watch got busted leapin' off stuff in the dark."

"Too fucking early in the A.M., that's what time it is. I only got to bed a couple of hours ago, and I'm not in the mood to put up with your bloody hero crap."

"Hero? You must have me confused with someone who gives a fuck. Look, Chas, I'm sorry about waking you up, but it's important."

"Ain't it always?" Chas' sigh gusted down the phone. "All right, where are you?"

"Chas, you're a prince among men. Down near the docks, in a phone box on…" He squinted at the sign across the street. "…Tailor's Lane."

"What the bloody hell are you doin' there?"

"Chasing delusions, Chas. See you in quarter of an hour."

"_Half_. I gotta get dressed yet."

There was a click as Chas hung up before Constantine could argue. Seemed the old dog had learned from experience. He dug in his pants pocket for more 10p coins and dialled Kingston's direct number. Might as well bring him up to speed. Besides, after last night his quarry would have gone to ground. And apart from the feathers, he didn't have much to trace him by, and those would be just as likely to lead him to Trafalgar Square. About time Phil did some of his own legwork - this business stank more than week-old fish, and he was only a 'consultant' after all.

"Baker Street CIB. Sergeant Kingston speaking."

"Morning Phil."

"About bloody time you showed up. I've been trying to get hold of you."

"I told you, Phil, I don't work for the old Bill. This is just a personal favour, remember? Don't get on me back."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But something's come up."

"There's been another death."

"Close, maestro, but no cigar. There's been two."

"Two? Getting a bit greedy, ain't he?"

"You tell me. Any hints on what we're looking at here?"

"I'll tell you when I see you. Where are they?"

"High St. Behind Roxy's Café."

"I'll see you there."

Another damnable coincidence. Suddenly Constantine knew who he would find in the body bags. As he hung up he pulled out another cigarette with icy fingers, and lit it with a savage flick of the lighter.

"Shite."


	4. High Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character Death

"You take me to the nicest places, John," Chas remarked dryly as they pulled up in a side street that ran alongside Roxy's Café. The laneway behind was swarming with police, uniform and CIB, putting up barriers, taping off the scene, telling onlookers to move along, postulating and posing and pontificating to the media. "A murder scene? This looks bigger than Ben Hur. Lot of fuss over a couple of street kids. Maybe you got it wrong."

"I hope so." Constantine caught sight of Kingston amongst the chaos, looking more stone-faced than usual. Their eyes met and Kingston nodded and began to extricate himself from the gaggle of Scene of Crime officers in their white plastic suits. "Do a couple of turns around the block, Chas. This won't take long."

"What d'you think I am? Yer own private taxi service?" The heavy door slamming shut was his only reply. Tit for tat. "Bastard." With a sigh Chas slowly moved on.

They met at the barrier, blue and white police tape flapping in the slight breeze. Up close, Kingston looked tired; baffled and beset, as the newspapers might say. Must be getting more than a little grief from his superiors over the latest killings. And his news wouldn't do much to improve things. "What's with the circus?" Kingston grimaced.

"Some bastard journo decided to join the dots and now we've got full page headlines about a serial killer in Soho. This is all a publicity stunt, so Joe Public can see we're taking this seriously."

"And what's the damage?"

"Two bodies. Or at least the SoCO lot think it's two. One of them's all over the shop. A right old mess. We've got a couple of witnesses who say they heard an argument and some kind o' a scuffle around midnight. _And_ we've got signs o' someone leaving the scene on foot, possibly injured."

"Any idea of who the stiffs are?"

"No identification yet. We're waiting on forensic, although that won't be much use for the poor sod decorating the walls. The other one…" Kingston's craggy face turned stonier. "He's just a kid. Between ten and fourteen. Only partially burned, so I'd say our friend got interrupted."

'By my visit, probably,' Constantine thought. 

"We're going through the missing persons files now - he's probably a runaway." Kingston gave Constantine an almost pleading look. "I was hoping you might be able to help us on that front. As a favour, y'understand. No obligation."

"I might." Constantine offered the battered cigarette packet to Kingston, who took one after a moment's hesitation. Not a good time to give up. "I've got some possible names for your victims. An' the one that got away. They're street kids, rent boys, selling 'emselves to whoever has the cash an' the inclination. The young lad is called Noel, and the other one is either Simon or Craig. I'm betting Simon. Check your logs for prostitution arrests for those three names, I'm sure you'll come up with a match somewhere."

"Do I want to know how you got this info?" Kingston asked around the cigarette clamped between his lips as he scribbled the names down in his notebook.

"No ouija boards or sacrificin' cats, if that's what you mean. I had a chat with them yesterday. They knew Burrowes. And Callaghan. And they'd had contact with the killer."

"Contact? That sounds like you've got a possible suspect. Don't hold out on me, John. I need a break here. The top brass are starting to take more than a passing interest in this, with the media's help, and they're asking difficult questions. Like why we haven't caught a villain that's probably leaving the scene covered in pervert puree. These kids are going to make it worse."

"You're not going to like it."

"I already don't like this business - haven't since I got dragged into it. C'mon John, for once in your life just cut the mystical crap and give me a straight answer." Constantine noticed how Kingston's hands were shaking as he dragged on the cigarette, how his eyes flickered around nervously. A good man, for a copper. He didn't deserve to be the meat in this particular sandwich.

"Get your lads to watch out for a kid, about ten, white-blonde hair, blue eyes. He looks like any ordinary kid, but don't let that fool 'em. First sign, they keep their distance and you give me a shout."

"A kid? You're pulling me leg. A kid did that?"

"Something that looks like a kid, any way. Remember the size of those footprints? I'm telling you, Phil, this is serious stuff. I ran across him last night and nearly got meself barbequed. It's nothing to muck about with."

"Fine, warning taken. Here, take this." Phil pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and pushed it into Constantine's hands. "Welcome to the twenty-first century." At the magician's raised eyebrow, he added; "How else can I tell you if we find your lad? You're a hard man to get hold of, John Constantine." His grin faded as he noted several uniformed men approaching. "Christ, the bastards came down for a tour. I'd better go. We can talk later. The 'Dirty Donkey', sevenish?"

"You're asking me out? What will your wife say?" Constantine pocketed the mobile and gave Kingston a brief slap on the shoulder. "Cheers, mate."

Kingston, a glassy half-smile fixed on his face, turned to face his commanding officers. Constantine didn't envy him one bit.

Chas, by mystic arts known only to London cabbies, had managed to find a park in High Street, not far from Roxy's. He was napping as Constantine slid into the back seat, but started awake when the door slammed closed.

"Get what you were after?" he asked blearily, rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin with a rasping sound. "Can I go back to bed now?"

"In a bit. Just one more thing; I need to go back to the docks."

"You what?"

"Call it a mercy dash. I've got a hunch someone is going to need it."

***

He didn't have the right materials for a proper locating spell, but the egg and the saltpetre were mainly for the look of it any way. With Chas on his heels, looking as set upon as only a maltreated mate can look, Constantine wandered once again through the maze of warehouses. By the morning light - weak and winter-feeble though it was - the buildings seemed to have somehow shrunk, collapsing in on themselves. Broken windows gave the deserted hulks the look of crow-picked skulls, the eye sockets empty and glaring.

"Do you have any clue where you're going? We could end up bein' mugged in a place like this," Chas complained in a low mutter. "If anythin' happens to my motor, I'm going to take it out of your hide. And don't think I can't, 'cause we both know I can."

"Chas? Do me a favour and shut up for a minute? I'm trying to concentrate."

"On what?"

"On…" Constantine circled an abandoned rubbish skip, and stopped. "That."

'That' was a human shape, slumped over itself, arms wrapped around his stomach, whether from cold or pain it was difficult to tell. He was also spattered with gore, his clothes stiff with brownish-red, flecked here and there with fragments of white that could only be bone.

"Jesus." Chas took an involuntary step back. "What a mess."

"Hell of a dry cleaning bill," Constantine agreed, crouching beside the still form. "Still breathin', at least." He gave the prostitute a small shake, then gently slapped his face. "C'mon Craig, wakey, wakey." When Craig's brown eyes slowly fluttered open, they were as full of wonder as a small child's.

"Daddy?" he croaked, and then frowned, blinking away the confusion. "Oh. 'S you, then. Worked it out then, did yer? I figured yer would." He shifted slightly and winced. Fresh blood leaked out from between the fingers clutching at his stomach. 

"Not hard to. Those directions you gave me were too good for someone who didn't know the area pretty well. How long have you been livin' down here?"

"A bit. Got meself a nice little bolt 'ole. Pretty cozy in th' winter. I thought I'd lay up there fer a bit, only I got tired." He coughed, a harsh, wet sound, blood flecking his blue-tinged lips. "Shit, that bleedin' wanker's done fer me, I reckon."

"You mean Simon?" Constantine helped Craig adjust to a more comfortable position, propped in the corner formed by the skip and the graffiti-covered wall. "What happened?"

"Christ, John, this kid needs a hospital, not a bloody Q&A session. Can't it wait?" Outrage filled Chas' voice.

"N-no 'ospitals. Can't stand 'em," Craig rasped out, weakly grabbing at Constantine's coat. "No point now anyway. I gotta tell yer wot 'appened, right?"

"Fair enough." Constantine shot Chas the well-known 'don't interfere' look. "Tell me."

"'S hard t' remember…" Craig rubbed his hand across his face, and dried blood flaked off beneath is fingers. He didn't seem to notice. "When yer took off, I met up wiv Simon an' Noel again, down at Roxy's. Simon woz gonna do fer th' kid, th' one I told yer about…" He turned his bloody visage up towards Constantine. "Only he's not a kid, is he?"

"No, he's not." 

Craig nodded. "I thought not. Simon woz sayin' 'ow someone 'ad ter teach th' kid a lesson, getting' 'imself really worked up. Wiv all the filth around, he couldn't get a fix, see? Th' dealers are all waitin' for fings to cool down. Simon blamed th' kid fer it." The words tumbled out in a feverish rush, as if Craig somehow sensed he mightn't finish. "Any way, who should 'appen past Roxy's but th' kid? Simon lost it - before I knew it, 'e woz out there, bailin' th' kid up and hustlin' 'im inter the alley behind. Me an' Noel followed - I fink Noel wanted ter see th' kid get 'is come-uppance. But when Simon started in on 'im, well, I just sorta lost me rag. I went fer 'im. Only the bastard managed ter pull a blade on me." A brief smile flickered across his blood-flecked lips. "He got 'is, orright. Well and truly."

"The kid?" 

"Yer should 'ave seen it, mate, he was th' most beautiful fing…" A somehow transfixed expression crept into the blood-smeared face. "There was this light, like God woz lookin' down on us. And 'e had these wings…" Craig frowned slightly. "Simon screamed sumfing, an' then he woz… gone. Jus' like that. An' then I realised I woz covered wif… stuff, an' Noel woz tryin' to run away, only th' kid called 'im back. An' then 'e woz screamin' too, screamin' an' burnin'. Only th' light went out, an' it went all dark, an' then I hears this voice in th' darkness, high an' sorta pure-like."

"What did it say?" Constantine could see the boy's life slipping away, marked by each gout of blood that dribbled onto the stained concrete. "Hang in there, Craig. Tell me what he said."

"'E said…" Craig's voice trailed away, his eyes starting to glaze over. "'E said, 'None shall cross Raguel.' Then 'e woz gone, an' I woz alone in th' dark." The bloodied hand slipped from Constantine's lapel, landing on the ground with a meaty thwack. "Jus' like I am now." A tear dribbled down Craig's face, turning pinkish as it mixed with Simon's blood. Another bout of coughing sent blood gushing from his mouth, and then he lay still, muddy brown eyes still staring up into Constantine's.

"Aren't we all?" muttered Constantine, drawing his hand over the dead eyes to close them. He paused for a moment, and then straightened, knees popping. "Kingston's gonna love this." He shot a look at Chas, who was still radiating disapproval. "Feel up to making an anonymous tip-off?"

***

Simon and Noel may have been invisible to society while alive, but their deaths made headlines on the evening news bulletin. In the near-empty public bar of 'The Dirty Donkey', the sight of the bloodied sheet covering Simon's remains as they were carried out on a stretcher was the focus of much morbid curiosity.

"They reckon 'e was splattered all over the place," remarked one of the drinkers. "The plods couldn't keep their breakfasts down." The camera focussed on a young PC, face chalk white, stumbling from the scene. "See?" the man continued smugly.

"Less filth on the streets, if you ask me," said another. "Who cares what they do to each other, as long as it doesn't bother respectable folk?"

"They're all perverts," agreed a third. "This bloke, he's doin' the Bill a favour. Doin' their jobs for them."

"Since they can't do it worth shit themselves," the second man added, nodding.

"'Land of Hope an' Glory', eh?" Kingston muttered under his breath. "Bastards. Listen to 'em. Like to see them do better." He drained his pint and set it down on the bar with a small thump. "Same again," he told the barman.

"You're hitting it hard tonight, Phil," Constantine observed, adding with a grin; "Not that I mind, if you're buying."

"After the bollocking I got, you'd be trying to kill off your brain cells too," Kingston grumbled. "And your find today didn't add much sparkle to my day, I can tell you." He took a long draught of his fresh pint, draining half of it in what seemed to be one swallow. "You sure he was just a witness? It'd make things easier for me if I could pin all this on a dead bloke. A disgruntled prostitute with illegal explosive is a lot more credible than a ten year old avenging angel."

"Things that bad with the top brass?"

"You'd better believe it. The whole operation has gone decidedly pear-shaped. It's getting so I'm tempted to drop the whole thing into my guvnor's lap and be done with it. What I need is a suspect, an' your mate Craig is an unholy temptation."

"I won't tell if you won't." Kingston gave Constantine a dirty look. "Only jokin', mate. Anyway, I'm still not convinced the kid _is_ from the Bloke Upstairs. Wrong feel, for a start."

"So we have a kid with supernatural powers impersonating an archangel?" Kingston snorted and shook his head. "I can't believe I just said that seriously. You live in a pretty fucked-up world, John."

"Tell me about it," Constantine replied, nodding at the barman for another round. "Nah, I've met Raguel…"

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"…And besides being a complete pillock, he's got a completely different aura, to borrow the hippy expression," he continued. "Besides which, he doesn't mutilate birds, as far as I know. Whatever this kid _thinks_ he is, he's not the Archangel of the Lord's Vengeance." He paused as the barman replaced their empty glasses with fresh pints, an eyebrow raised at their conversation. He quickly moved on at Constantine's glare. "The annoying thing is I can't help thinkin' I've seen the little twerp before."

"If you had, I'm sure you'd have remembered. Turning people into jam is pretty bloody memorable. Unfortunately." With a shudder, Kingston reached for his drink.

"It'll come to me." With only marginal unsteadiness, Constantine slid off his bar stool. "Back in a sec." The police sergeant nodded and turned his attention back to the news as the magician made his way to the 'Gents.' The barman had turned up the sound, so Kingston was able to hear the newsreader's commentary over a repeat of the footage showing the bodies being removed.

"…identity of the two victims is still unknown, but police have confirmed they were known in the Soho area. And in late-breaking news, a third body has been discovered in the riverside warehouse district, following an anonymous tip-off to police…"

"Bloody leaks," Kingston snarled, digging through his pockets for the spare mobile he'd commandeered. Considering Craig's death hadn't been an official press release, one of his team had to be involved. And while he didn't believe in taking out the grief his superiors gave him on his officers, this time he would make an exception. Yelling always made him feel much better.

There was another man standing at the urinals as Constantine came in. He barely drew a second look; in his early sixties, hair thinning and showing only traces of it's original dark colour. Mouth permanently twisted down, slightly puckered in apparent disapproval of the world in general. Beady dark eyes magnified behind severe black-rimmed glasses. He glanced furtively at Constantine as he took up a position at the other end of the urinal, and then looked away again almost as quickly. Immediately Constantine's paranoia pinged a warning. This bloke looked damned familiar, in the same way the kid - 'Raguel' - did.

"Where do I know you from?" The little man jumped, almost dribbling piss on his shoes.

"Nowhere," he replied quickly - too quickly - and his eyes met Constantine's and flicked nervously away.

"Nah, I'm sure I've seen you before. It'll come to me in a minute."

"I think you must be mistaken. I certainly haven't met you before - I'm sure I would remember." In his hurry to be out of there, the man almost did himself an injury, zipping his pants with more speed than caution. He moved over to the cracked sinks, jerking the sleeves of his plain black suit up to wash his hands, revealing what seemed to be the tip of a sword, tattooed onto the papery skin.

Memory hit Constantine like a lightening stroke. Ten years ago. Heaven and Hell waging war on the streets of London. The Damnation Army, and…

"The Resurrection Crusade? I thought you jokers had gone out of business long ago." Constantine took advantage of the shock his words produced to place himself between the man and the door. "I remember now. You were that plonker at me sister's house when Gemma went missing." He shook out a cigarette, eyes never leaving the man, who was looking at him like a cornered rabbit, unsure of whether to freeze or to bolt. " _Now_ I remember. You're still a fuckweasel."

"Well done." The Crusader's voice held no humour, finding courage in well-known bigotry. "And what else do you remember, Magician?"

"I remember Zed."

The Crusader ran a pale tongue over his dry lips. "You mean the Mary."

"She’ll always be Zed to me. I suppose you got rid of her soon enough after she failed to meet her destiny?"

"Failed?" Surprise flashed across the weaselly face, soon replaced by amusement. "You think we failed?"

"You must have, after…" Constantine paused, suspicion curling in his guts like a live snake swallowed whole. "No, not even you lot could be _that_ stupid."

"'Stupid'? We'll see who's stupid, Magician, when Raguel comes to judge you, hmm?" The Crusader shouldered his way past and back into the pub; Constantine let him go, knowing he would show up again, like the bad penny he was. 

Besides, he needed to do some serious thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Zed, the Damnation Army and the Resurrection Crusade can be found in[Hellblazer: Original Sins.](http://hellblazer.wikia.com/wiki/Original_Sins)_


	5. A Mugging In Memory Lane

_Wrapped in the living heart of the tree, they are so close he can smell the purity of her skin, overlaid with the intoxicating scent of incense. Just being near her breaks his heart all over again._

_["I've come to break you out."_

_"No, John. I'm sorry, but I can't. I've decided I have to do it. It was what I was born for. Please don't try to make me."_

_"No, darlin', I won't try to make you. Huh, so I play fall guy to a starring role in 'The Son Of Man, Part Two'."_

_"Don't be bitter."_

_"I'm not. I'd probably do the same if I were you. What choice do you have? Queen of Heaven or drudge of Hell."_

_"Don't cry. I'll always love you, John."_

_"That's good. I'll always love you too."]_

_He is enveloped in her arms, his head upon her breast like a sleepy child's. She is so soft, and it feels so good…_

_…Then he smells the burning, feels the touch of holy fire. He shoves her away, and the air is filled with the greasy smell of roasting meat. 'Just like Ritchie.' She is incandescent, burning brighter than a star, and even as her flesh withers and her skin runs down like melting cheese, she reaches for him, the sightless eye sockets seeking him out._

_"John…"_

Constantine woke with a start, spilling the remains of a tumbler of whisky into his lap. It didn't matter; he reeked of the stuff any way. Besides, it drowned out the smell of burning flesh that still seared his memory. Christ, he hadn't had a dream like that for years. He'd left Kingston about two am, staggering back to his flat with his mind awhirl with fire and feathers and a pair of greenish-blue eyes looking up at him with misplaced trust. Not the first of his betrayals, or the worst, but it had niggled at the back of his mind like a psychic toothache. Like unfinished business. Eventually it had faded, but now it was back, with a vengeance.

"Fuck it," he snarled, thumping his glass onto the table beside his armchair and staggering to his feet. Eight years, and the Resurrection Crusade and the Damnation Army were reaching out for him again. Last time he had lost his remaining friends, unwitting pawns sacrificed in a doomed game-plan. He'd lost his mind too, for a time, harried by the ghosts of his conscience. The only doubtful gain had been the demon's blood-cure, the fires of Hell running through his veins, knitting bone and muscle, the blood which still seethed inside him. No, he'd paid his dues, salved his conscience. Phil was just going to have to manage this one on his own.

With that thought, he made his way to the bathroom, shedding pub-soiled clothes as he went. Yeah, that'd be the ticket, he decided as the water sluiced over him. It was lukewarm, as always, but the shower did him good. He'd call Kingston, have breakfast on the CID expense account, and then dump the whole sticky mess in his lap. Kingston wouldn't love him for it, but he could live with that. After all, it wasn't like he was winning any popularity contests… He turned off the taps, almost immediately noticing the abrupt chill in the air. The plastic curtain was slick with ice as he pushed it back…

Zed was standing on the bathmat.

"Jesus," he breathed, his skin crawling and humping itself into gooseflesh as if it was trying to escape. His breath fogged in the frigid air. Hers did not. "Are you real?"

She smiled at him in that lazy, mysterious way she'd had, reminding him of the Cheshire Cat. "As real as any of your ghosts, John," she said, reaching out to brush his chest with fingers no more substantial than wind or smoke. "You'll catch your death, standing there soaking wet."

Constantine reached out for the threadbare towel hanging on its rail, not taking his eyes off her. Zed - and she _was_ Zed, not the eerily serene Mary he had betrayed with something more than a kiss - watched him wrap the towel around his skinny hips, her not-quite-there face wearing a look of amusement. He drank the sight of her in like single-malt whisky.

"You're lookin' good for a figment of my imagination, kid," he said with a slight grin. "So, does this mean I'm losing my marbles again?"

"Probably, love." Again, that full-lipped smile. "Or I could be your unconscious, telling you not to be such a bloody fool." Her expression grew serious, the blue-green eyes turning dark. "The child is dangerous, John. People have died. And they're going to keep on dying."

"An' I'm going t' be one of them, if I go up against your Lords and Masters again." The words cut like a well-wielded whip, and Constantine's fingers itched for a cigarette. "I've done me bit. Let Her Majesty's Finest earn their wages."

"Even though they can't possibly deal with it?" Zed's ghost - or his own - sounded bitter. "Then again, that's your style, isn't it? Using your friends as cannon fodder? A pity people don't come by the box, like tissues. You'd need the Jumbo Economy Size."

"Tell me something new, kid. It's all part of the bastard charm." Before she could protest, he walked through her unquiet shade and into the lounge. Dirty grey morning was filtering through the half-drawn blinds, the light unforgiving and mean. Hopelessness oozed from the overflowing ashtrays, the dishes heaped in the kitchenette sink, the clothes scattered on the floor. He turned, half-expecting, wholly wanting her to be behind him, happy to argue morality as long as she wanted, if only so she'd stay.

The doorway was empty.

"Shit."

The electronic shrilling of his coat was loud in the still flat. Stooping, he fumbled through the pockets until his fingers met the slick shape of Kingston's mobile phone. His resolution to back out loomed large, faltered, even as his fingers felt for the 'Off' switch. Then, he pressed the 'Start' button.

"Wot?"

"Who is this?" The voice was definitely not Kingston's. Not unless he'd gone for a sex change operation. And spent years at Oxford or Cambridge or another of those Institutions for the Education of Insufferable Gits.

"I'm a ma… an associate of Phil's. He's been consulting me on a case. Who th' hell are you?"

"Detective Inspector Robbins. DS Kingston is one of my people. How did you get his mobile?" Constantine couldn't help grinning. Poor Phil. No wonder he looked so put upon, with Madame Lash as his governor.

"He left it behind in th' pub last night. I picked it up for him - I was going to give it back to him today." The towel slipped, and Constantine had to hitch it up again, the mobile cradled against his shoulder.

"So you know where he is."

"At work, I would have thought. What's all this about?"

"Detective Sergeant Kingston didn't report in this morning. And as far as we can determine, he didn’t go home last night." Beneath the official façade, he could now hear the concern that laced DI Robbins' words, concern that was well-placed. Kingston was a good copper, and a good family man. It wasn't like him to not let someone know what was going on. He probably put in a report every time he went to the bog. "If you have any information about where DS Kingston might be, I strongly advise you to tell me, Mr…?"

Constantine hit the "End" button, neatly cutting her off. "Bloody idiot. Why the fuck didn't you call me?" He made to put the mobile down on the table, but then paused as something occurred to him. "Or maybe you did, only I was too bloody drunk to hear it." Somehow, he managed to get into the stored messages on the little device - machines had never been his thing, not like his old pal Ritchie, who had gone up in smoke while astrally surfing the information highway. He flipped through the half-dozen or so messages left by work colleagues (inadvertently wiping each one), until he reached the last one. 

"John? John, ya stupid wanker, answer the bloody phone. What's the bloody point of giving it to you if you turn it off?" Kingston's voice sounded unusually strained, almost panicked, and the sound of it made the room temperature drop several degrees. Constantine's blood seemed to freeze. "Look, I'm down…" A swirl of static obliterated the policeman's voice for a moment. "…and he's here! That kid you told me about, I've seen him!" Again the voice faded, returned. "…to get down here, before…" Constantine resisted the urge to bash the mobile against the table. "…oh shit, I think I've…" The sound of traffic, a public announcement system making as much sense as Swahili, and then another voice, high and pure and chillingly clear. 

"Are you a bad man?"

"Phil!" Constantine shouted, as if that would help.

"You have no more messages," the machine cheerfully told him. This time he _did_ throw the thing away, taking off to the bedroom at a dead run. First clothes, and then he had a mate to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text in square brackets ([ ]) is directly quoted from [Hellblazer: Original Sins](http://hellblazer.wikia.com/wiki/Original_Sins)


	6. Sins Of The Fathers

Constantine skidded around the corner, shoes sliding on the tiles. He tried to ignore the hammering of his heart in his chest and the nasty feeling in his gut that maybe his detective work wasn't as good as he hoped. Blank-eyed commuters stared at him incuriously as he shouldered his way past, trying to avoid him without being seen to acknowledge that a wild-eyed man in a stained trench coat was battering his way through the rush-hour crowds on a Tube station platform. It would have been terribly un-English to make a fuss. Then, as he was starting to think his luck had left him again, he was hit simultaneously by the incomprehensible Swahili mumble of the platform announcement, and the metallic taste of strong magic. His guess about the PA system he'd heard on Kingston's phone had been accurate after all - he was in at least the right place. 

Now if only he was there at the right time. 

With a glance behind him to make sure he hadn't attracted any unwelcome notice of the official kind, he stepped off the end of the platform and vanished into the smoky darkness of the train tunnel. The magic trace got stronger as he moved along the tracks, cursing softly under his breath at every misstep and stumble. A blast of fetid air from a side tunnel momentarily drowned out the smells of coal-smoke and ozone and fast food, and he took that turn; the tang of magic was stronger, and mixed with something else, something darker, something that put the primitive parts of his brain on alert and stirred the hair on the back of his neck. The small tunnel seemed to be some sort of maintenance conduit, as rough stone and metal rails gave way to concrete and dim lighting; at the end was a door, locked of course. Simple enough to pick. The dull grey metal was warm under his fingers, almost crackling with the level of ambient magic in the air. The air was fairly electrical with it, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm of Biblical proportions. Even young Tim Hunter hadn't sparked like this, and he had the potential to be the most powerful magician since Merlin, if he ever got his act together.

'Christ, Phil, you'd better buy me a beer after this,' Constantine thought, and then pushed open the door.

The room behind was some kind of storage room, no doubt replicated a thousand times throughout the Tube's network of underground railway stations and train lines. Oubliettes of equipment and cleaning products, misplaced or forgotten or just plain unwanted. Be that as it may, Constantine was willing to bet that there was no storeroom quite as gruesomely decorated as this one.

He was too late.

Blood oozed down the walls, dripped from the ceiling. Gobbets of flesh squelched unpleasantly beneath his feet as he took several faltering steps forward. In the centre, unmarred by the carnage, was the tell-tale circle, and the footprints.

"Those bastards. Those fuckin' bloody bastards." Constantine looked helplessly around, seeking someone or something on which to focus his rage, but finding nothing. Blood rained down on him, streaking his hair and face with sticky crimson - it ran down his face like thick tears. "It's too fucking much."

"I'd say it is," rasped a familiar voice from the doorway. Constantine whipped around to find Phil Kingston - unshaven, dishevelled, but most certainly alive - slumped against the door frame.

"Phil? Then who…?" It wasn't often Constantine was lost for words, but there's always a first time for everything.

"A nasty little zealot by the name of Elder Martin," Phil replied, enjoying Constantine's surprise. "You might remember him from the 'Donkey' last night. Put the wind right up him, you did."

"But that message on your phone… Christ, Phil, I heard the kid talkin' to you."

"'Are you a bad man?'" Kingston tried to chuckle, but it caught in his throat. "Scared the life outta me, that did. Turns out I wasn't a bad man, but your friend Martin was. The kid brought me down here - he took a liking to me, I s'pose - and then Martin showed up, raising all kinds of merry hell. He tried to get the kid to do me, but the kid did him instead." Kingston's grin slipped, revealing a man grown too old for this kind of crap. "He had a bit to say, 'though, before that happened. Seems you have some history with the Resurrection Crusade you weren't tellin' me about. I think it's time you told me what the fuck's going on, don't you, 'mate'?"

***

"They caught me on the hop." Constantine passed the lit cigarette over the Kingston after a deep drag. "The Damnation Army and the Resurrection Crusade. Mirror images, completely opposite in their allegiances, but not adverse t' using the same methods. I was in the States when things started - by the time I got back, they'd gotten such a head start I was practically out of the race. Only I had a bit of luck."

"Don't you always?" Kingston leaned back against the cool tiles of the maintenance tunnel, savouring the smoke. They'd left the unfortunate Elder Martin to the scavengers, Constantine tracking Raguel's magical signature through the maze of tunnels beneath London. And as they walked, they talked.

"Don't knock it - if it wasn't for my luck, you'd have been blood brothers with the Elder, there." Constantine cocked his head at a slight rustle from the tunnel. 

"Is he coming back?"

"Nah, just a rat. I'll let you know." By silent agreement they began walking again, the way lit only erratically, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the slightly curved walls.

"So what happened? This lucky streak of yours?"

"A street-girl calling herself Zed. She was a graffiti artist…" Here Constantine paused, as another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. That otherworldly landscape on the warehouse wall had been one of Zed's. "She helped me out with some family business, and we got… close."

"'Close'?"

"There ain't much closer." Constantine allowed himself a brief leer before continuing. "Only she wasn't what she said she was. She was the chosen one of the Crusaders, destined to be the vessel bringing the next Son of God onto the scene."

"You've got to be jokin'. Another Messiah? Virgin birth, choirs of angels, frankincense and myrrh, all that rot?"

"Well, I took care of the virgin part, but otherwise you're right. She'd taken some kind o' sabbatical, wanting to experience life, only she didn't want to go back. The Crusaders ended up takin' her back by force. Killed a mate of mine, Ray Monde, to do it."

"That old queen with the antique shop in Camden? We had that tagged as a routine gay bashing."

"No reason to think otherwise. Any way, the Damnation Army can't let the Crusaders get the upper hand, so the demon in charge called Nergal visits me in the hospital with a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Stop the Crusaders, stuff up the prophecy, and he won't go through the maternity ward like Forrest Gump through a box of chocolates."

"'Hospital'?" To Kingston's amusement, Constantine actually looked sheepish.

"I talk a long walk off a short train. Broke quite a few bits of meself. Nergal fixed me up with a demon-blood transfusion."

"Somehow I doubt he did it out of the kindness of his heart." Constantine nodded.

"Damn right. The bastard knew I couldn't kill the Mary - Zed - so he rigged it so I'd betray her anyway." Again, Constantine paused. Here in the dark, in the quiet, his story had taken on the feeling of a confession. He felt - relieved? - to be speaking of these things, thought dead but as all undead things rising again at the worst possible moment. He doubted Kingston could grant him absolution, but it felt liberating all the same. "The blood was an infection. And I passed it on. She thought I was loving her, but in the end, I destroyed her."

"And this kid? Where does he fit in all this?" Always the copper, Kingston dragged them back to the original issue. His companion breathed out a long sigh of smoke.

"Well that's the thing, isn't it? I figured no angel would go where I'd spilt poisoned seed, and I know I was right about that. But this kid, he's Zed's all right; he looks just like her. The Crusaders have their Messiah. So where did he come from?" Taking another deep drag on his cigarette, Constantine stared off down the tunnel; there was light down there, and fresh air. They were almost out. It was several heartbeats before he spoke again:

"I think he's mine."


	7. A Child Shall Lead Them

The end to this wasn't far, just up ahead, he could feel it in his bones and in the way his skin fizzled with the currents of magic. He could hear Kingston's heavy policeman's tread behind him, the pace he'd developed after years on the beat, steady and remorseless like the march of Time itself. Time indeed. Time to bury this.

They left the tunnel, crossed an open patch of waste ground, entered a dilapidated building. The air exploded with small, feathery bodies, wings clattering around them, mingling with startled calls. Kingston cursed as his battered suit jacket was splattered with white. Then the storm passed, and they found themselves standing in a maintenance shed. Disused now; there were a couple of dilapidated carriages abandoned there, one partially burned out, both scrawled with graffiti. Pigeons grumbled and muttered in their sanctuary in the rafters of the roof, where gaping holes let a cold drizzle drift down onto them.

Kingston squinted, even the dull London wintry daylight harsh to eyes grown accustomed to semi-darkness. It was Constantine who nudged him and pointed towards the one derelict carriage that still had a roof.

"There."

Feathers were drifting down, black and white, grey and brown, more varieties than could have been shed by the disgruntled pigeons. All wing-feathers, dragged to earth by the old blood crusting their ends. Over the sound of dripping water and distant trains came a panicked cooing. Quietly, they crept around to the end of the carriage.

Their quarry was perched on its roof, his legs dangling down, for all the world like Huckleberry Finn fishing from a bridge. Certainly he looked like any young boy, dressed in jeans and an England football jersey, his face round and soft; perfectly innocent, if you discounted the wings mantling above him, keeping off the rain. Once they had been festooned with feathers, but now the red leathery skin was showing as the camouflage failed. A pigeon struggled weakly in the small hands, pecking ineffectually at his fingers as they pulled out the wing feathers, one by one, using the blood to stick them back onto his own wings. Blood smeared his jeans, stained his hands.

Tears were streaming down his face.

"Raguel." Constantine's voice was bleak, the voice of a man who has decided he is tired of Fate's jokes at his expense. The pigeon was let fall; it lay on its side in a muddy puddle at their feet, struggling to use its naked wings. Kingston's face twisted with distaste, but Constantine remained impassive.

"It's you," the boy who wasn't a boy said. He drew his wings around him in a gesture of self-comfort. "I tried to fix it, but they all fall out," he continued. He drew his sleeve across his running nose with a thoroughly boyish snuffle. "I was just trying to be good, you know."

"By taking life?" Kingston pressed, policeman to the core. "By committing murder?"

"'And the sinners shall suffer unspeakable torment…' The Elder Martin said the wicked should be punished." Raguel smiled, the expression sending chills down Kingston's spine. "So I punished them. They thought I was their angel of vengeance, but they were wrong."

"How were they wrong?"

" _He_ knows." Raguel nodded at Constantine, who so far was standing silent. "Tainted seed. Everything he touches turns to shit." The words didn't fit the rosebud mouth.

"Why the perverts?" Constantine retorted, meeting the cold gaze. Raguel almost flinched and dropped his eyes to the pigeon lying at their feet, its struggles stilled.

"Why not? They preyed on the helpless."

"So do bank managers, but I didn't see any smiting going on there." Raguel frowned.

"You're making fun of me. You're not taking me seriously." Lightly, he dropped down off the carriage, his sneakers splashing on the concrete floor. His grin was almost feral as he looked up at them. "You'll see. Watch this."

It was just a small glow at first, creeping across the pale skin like sunlight, casting a warm glow to the white hair. Then it intensified, heightened, gradually initially so that the blood was visible beneath the skin, like a child placing his hand over the lit end of a flashlight, only magnified. It grew brighter, too bright to look at, and Constantine felt his chest constrict at the sheer amount of power being generated. A large, hard hand grabbed his arm, and for the first time he saw fear and awe etched on Kingston's rugged features.

Then the popping noises began.

The maintenance shed had been home to generations of pigeons, who had found the rafters a safe haven from the bustle of London's train stations. No longer. With a series of small, wet explosions, Raguel detonated them, filling the air with blood and feathers and pureed body parts. Out of the corner of his eye, Constantine saw Kingston stagger back, retching. A severed head had caught in the front of the detective sergeant's coat, beak still gaping open and shut. A shrill giggling reached his ears, and he turned back to Raguel; the demonchilde was gleaming brighter than a star, shining with a light that was both beautiful and terrible.

His grin was that of a boy playing his favourite prank.

Constantine half-shut his eyes against the glare, reached out, grabbed the small shoulders. He wasn't sure what he expected to achieve - except a horrible, bloody death - but this had gone on long enough, it had been too much.

Two things happened.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Ragual wailed, grabbing at Constantine's wrists. The cry was not the evil rasp of one of the Fallen, or the righteous trumpet of one of the Host: it was the cry of a child, abused and frightened. 

The other thing that happened was that as the small hands closed around his wrists, Constantine's mind exploded with light.

_'Christ, not another friggin' mind trip,'_ he managed to think briefly, before a host of memories not his own hit him:

_~ The Mary, waking cold and alone in the hollow tree where he'd left her, the first seed of doubt sprouting in her heart even as the seed of her destruction began sprouting in her womb. ~_

_~ The mother, lying cold and dead in a sterile room, as her first born son is taken from her by grim-faced zealots. The room echoes with his thin cry. ~_

_~ The righteous men, their faces cold, their hearts colder, standing in judgement. "The vessel was flawed, but her spawn might still prove useful," says one. "The forces of darkness think they have won. Let their changeling prove to be the vehicle of their destruction." ~_

_~ The child, huddled cold and alone in a bare stone cell, fearing what the opening door will bring, but fearing the dark even more, because the darkness speaks to him. "Our little secret," the bad man says, his hands sliding over the child's smooth skin. And the hurting begins. ~_

_~ The Angel, standing cold and terrible, filled with righteousness and power, released at last upon the world to wreck the Lord's vengeance. A toilet block, a moment of groping hands and stammered invitation, bringing back the fear of the small boy in the cell… His first kill. ~_

The link between them shattered into a million fragments as a driving pain drilled through his heart. Constantine gasped and staggered back, returning to himself with the thought that it had been too much, that his heart was finally giving up on him. Instead his eyes opened on the sight of the child - _his_ child - wearing an expression of abject surprise, blood flecking the pale pure skin of his face. One hand still held his father's wrist, the other reaching down to touch the tip of the railway spike protruding from his chest.

"F-father?" he asked, lifting his eyes to Constantine's, the glow diminishing around them. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…" Blood dribbled scarlet over his lips, spilling onto Constantine's hands as he tried to support the limp body. Then with a sigh, like he was falling asleep, Raguel slumped, becoming a dead weight that slipped through Constantine's fingers. He raised his glance to meet Kingston's where he had stood behind Raguel, his hands stained with red, his face grey with shock.

"Phil?"

The police officer blinked, as if roused from a deep sleep.

"Phil? What have you done?"

Kingston looked down at his hands, regarding them with shocked detachment. "I had to do something, John. He was killing you."

"He wasn't killin' me, he was showing me, showing me the truth. He was as much a victim as poor bloody Craig." Constantine looked down at the small figure lying crumpled at his feet. "Christ, Phil, he was just a kid. A hurt frightened kid, who was only doing what he'd been taught." He dug savagely in his pockets for his cigarettes. "For fuck's sake, he was _my_ kid."

"But I thought…" Kingston let his voice die away, lost in the melancholy wail of the approaching sirens. Rain drifted down through the ruined roof, rinsing the blood from their faces and matting in the stolen feathers on a would-be angel's wings.


	8. Epilogue: Exeunt The Bastard

This is how it ends.

Broken glass crunched under his feet once more, and beneath the ever-present tang of tobacco he could smell dampness and decay. Dim late afternoon light drifted in through the broken windows, the holed roof. Not much of a place to call home. 

The investigation had been quietly wound up; faced with the conundrum of a demonic child carrying out the Lord's work, it was easier for the Met's top brass to shove it all under the carpet and pretend it hadn't happened. Phil Kingston was encouraged to take 'stress leave' - in other words, he'd jumped before he was pushed - and he and his wife were visiting family in Bronte country. Odds on he'd take early retirement, settle down in some small Yorkshire village. There was only so much a man like Phil could take.

The Crusaders had faded into the background again, consolidating their losses, biding their time. Once he might have weeded them out, driven them out from under their rocks and into the sun, but Phil wasn't the only one who'd had enough. Once it had been a laugh, dancing the line between heaven and hell, thumbing his nose at both, but in the end it had gotten him nowhere. What had he to show for it but a cemetery full of friends and lovers and a head full of ghosts?

Something stirred in the rafters, and a feather drifted down, spiralling in the darkening twilight.

John Constantine glanced once upwards, to the platforms, and then shrugged his shoulders deeper into the ever-present trenchcoat and left the cold, echoing warehouse to the darkness.

Sod this for a lark.

**Author's Note:**

> Winner of the 2001 CBFFA for Best DC/Vertigo Fic and the 2002 CBFFA for Best Serious Fic.
> 
> When I started this story in 2001, I had little idea of just how it would be received. 'Hellblazer' is still a moderately modest fandom, and having not written much of John Constantine before, I wasn't entirely confident in what I was doing. I wasn't even sure if I would finish.
> 
> The reaction I did get absolutely floored me. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who encouraged me in "Suffer", be it through feedback, reviews, comments in chat and requests for more. And especially thank you to those who voted for "Suffer" in the CBFFAs. I was semi-confident of a nomination, but to win an award… I can't really say anything else, but "Thank You".


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